


Flight of Boredom

by Kryptaria



Series: Feathers 'verse [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, M/M, demon!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-28
Updated: 2012-11-28
Packaged: 2017-11-19 17:36:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/575866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptaria/pseuds/Kryptaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Mrs. Hudson finds an unlikely guest in her bathroom, she knows exactly who to blame: Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flight of Boredom

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ScienceofObsession](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScienceofObsession/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [О скуке и полетах](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5089400) by [Hedwig221b](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hedwig221b/pseuds/Hedwig221b)



> Written with the help of Mitaya and Cousincecily as a gift for ScienceofObsession.

__

_“Sherlock!”_

John’s head snapped up at Mrs. Hudson’s shout, and he glared at Sherlock on principle, even though the man hadn’t moved from the sofa for the last day and a half, except to go to the bathroom and once to try and sneak a cigarette. As if John couldn’t smell tobacco smoke miles away, especially when it was being inhaled by _his_ human?

“What’d you do this time?” John asked for good measure.

Sherlock turned his head and fixed John with a lofty, disdainful expression. In tones of profound betrayal and disappointment, he said, “Nothing.”

“Keep trying. One day I might believe that,” John answered, turning the page with a rustle of newspaper.

Sherlock huffed and flopped dramatically back down on the sofa. Then, at the sound of Mrs. Hudson’s slippers on the stairs, he huffed even louder and tugged the dressing gown around himself like tattered wings of fine blue silk. Really, it was adorable. The man could out-sulk any demon.

Right on cue, Mrs. Hudson knocked once, sharply, and threw open the door. “Sherlock!” she accused.

John looked up from the newspaper and blinked in surprise. She had a plastic shower cap over curlers and wore a tattered dressing gown over bare legs. He couldn’t recall ever seeing her in such deshabille. “Afternoon, Mrs. Hudson,” he said politely.

She looked to him, and her smile came to life as if a switch had been thrown. “Hello, dear,” she said fondly, before the smile disappeared. She aimed a fierce glare at Sherlock and said, “I don’t know how you’ve done it, but fix it right this instant, Sherlock Holmes!”

Sherlock twisted like an uncoiling serpent and then froze, blinking at her — specifically, at the curlers under the shower cap. Then he smirked and asked, “Date, Mrs. Hudson? He’s —”

“We’ll be right down, Mrs. Hudson,” John interrupted politely. He rose and smacked Sherlock hard with a wing. Well, metaphorically hard. The wing was invisible and had no actual substance to it, but the feather entwining Sherlock’s spine ensured that he felt it.

Sherlock huffed at John, but his cold, pale eyes had gone soft and affectionate, sliding away from John’s visible human form to trace along his extended feathers. “Yes, yes. We’ll be right down,” Sherlock told Mrs. Hudson dismissively.

“I’ll make tea,” she decided, turning on her heel. “You’d best have this set to rights by the time it’s done!” she added before she stormed dramatically out.

John listened to her footsteps for a few seconds. “Right, Sherlock,” John said, crossing his arms. “There’s no point in keeping secrets. Just tell me what we’re going to find downstairs so I know if we need, I don’t know, gloves or tongs or my gun.”

“I honestly have no idea.”

John stared at him, trying to pick up any hint of deception, but Sherlock was a brilliant, practiced liar, and John was only an immortal demon. It was a losing battle.

“Fine,” John said, surrendering. “Let’s go see what’s happened this time.”

 

~~~

 

A full-grown duck really didn’t fit into a toilet.

Because the thought seemed insufficient to convey that sort of universal truth, John said, “You know, he really doesn’t fit in the toilet properly.”

“That’s Blackbeard,” Sherlock said, leaning down to peer more closely at the duck.

“And why is Blackbeard attempting — and failing — to swim in Mrs. Hudson’s toilet?” John asked, getting to the heart of the matter. The ‘how’ was obvious: Mrs. Hudson’s window was open, and it was the perfect size to provide entry to a duck.

Sherlock looked at John, and then pointedly turned to nod in the direction of the open bathroom door. Beyond, Mrs. Hudson could be heard rattling around in the kitchen.

“Right. Come on, you,” John said, holding out his hands to Blackbeard.

The duck ruffled his feathers gratefully and stepped up out of the toilet. He was unpleasantly wet from his swim, though at least Mrs. Hudson kept her toilet spotlessly clean.

“Pick up the rubbish,” John told Sherlock, nodding at the bin. Blackbeard had apparently landed there first, before attempting his swim.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “I —”

“I’ll take Blackbeard upstairs. You clean up your duck’s mess,” John told him, and exited the cramped little room with as much dignity as was possible while carrying a wet duck.

 

~~~

 

By the time Sherlock came back upstairs, John had Blackbeard in the sink, where he fit much more comfortably, and had got the whole story out of the duck. He leaned on the counter in front of the sink, staring in the direction of the door, waiting.

Sherlock paused in the kitchen doorway, taking in John’s stance — arms crossed, wings spread, feathers ruffled up — and held out a plate like a peace offering.

“Mrs. Hudson made biscuits.”

“Sherlock,” John said, lifting one hand to crook a finger at him. “We just had a little chat, Blackbeard and me.”

“Blackbeard and I,” Sherlock corrected.

John stared at him.

“Just because you’re a demon doesn’t excuse poor grammar.”

“Do you know why your ‘master spy’ was in Mrs. Hudson’s toilet?”

“I gather because he came in through the window but couldn’t get back out. Not enough of a sill to properly perch, and the window’s too narrow for him to fly directly out.”

“He was _bored_.”

Sherlock’s brows went up, the very picture of innocence. “Really?”

“‘Bored’, Sherlock. ‘Bored’ is not a concept that ducks know in nature. _He learned it from you!_ ”

Sherlock, bastard that he was, looked so pleased that John’s irritation thawed. “It’s an advanced concept,” Sherlock said. His smile grew as he crossed the kitchen. He put the plate of biscuits down — within reach of Blackbeard, John noticed — and peered over John’s shoulder, the very picture of a proud parent.

“Yes. Yes, it is,” John admitted, wrapping his arms around Sherlock. Humans as a whole were fascinating, but none so much as _his_ human. He pulled Sherlock down and gently kissed him, wrapping his wings around them both.

Sherlock all but purred, but broke the kiss too soon to mutter, “He’s eating our biscuits.”

John dismissed the sound of crunching at his back. “I know,” he said, and kissed Sherlock again.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Flight of Boredom](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8425618) by [nutmeag83](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nutmeag83/pseuds/nutmeag83)




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